


The Mayan Desire

by Piplover



Series: The Tip of the Blade [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-Slash, depiction of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piplover/pseuds/Piplover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the pain gets too much, Sherlock needs to find a release.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mayan Desire

       The scalpel was a comfortable weight in his hand,  almost as comfortable as his syringe had been.  Solid under his fingers, and made to fit in his palm.  Cocaine was expensive and could be detected by the dilation of his eyes, the twitching of his muscles.  But this?

 

       No one looked twice at a scalpel lying around his room.  And even in London, with its humid, sticky summers, he was blessed with a body which was never truly warm, so long sleeves had never been a problem.

 

      The ledge of the tub was cool against back of his legs.  John was out again, so there was no reason not to do the thing properly.  Clothes could be bled on, and whether the blood dripped into the sink or the tub, well, shaving nicks happened all the time. 

 

      He wriggled his naked toes against the cheep blue bathroom carpet, his lips stretching as he touched the edge of the blade to his inner arm.  There was less chance of an accidental reveal that way.

 

      There was pressure, slight at first as he savored the chill of the metal against his flesh, and then sharp, sweet, pain as he moved the blade.  Just a thin line, just a cut.  The wounds never had to be deep. 

 

      So many broody young teenagers got that part wrong.  It wasn’t about the depth of the cut, or the knife used to inflict it.  It was the control of the blade, the slow parting of skin and the pain, something so physical your mind could not help but let go.  It was a high almost greater than anything pharmaceutical. 

 

      John would disapprove.

 

      The thought penetrated the peace which had settled over him, disrupting his calm and forcing him to press the scalpel across a clear patch of skin in the hope of regaining it. 

 

      John was not here, he thought darkly.  John was on his third date with Sarah, and even Sherlock, in his admittedly limited knowledge about all things relationship -wise, knew the significance of that.  He did not expect to see his flat mate again until after his shift at the surgery tomorrow.

 

      Another press of the blade and a slow trickle of blood worked its way down his wrist, captured in his palm. 

 

      He was going to leave him.  The thought stretched out before him, as all his thoughts did, seeing the possibilities, the timelines, the inevitable conclusions that others were too stupid to realize. 

 

       John was going to continue dating Sarah, perhaps for another year, possibly two, and then they would marry, have children, and move into a small little flat with a dog wedged in between them on the bed at night. 

 

       At the most, John would stop by on the weekends, if they remained friends.  If Sarah didn’t insist that Sherlock was a bad influence on their kids, if they didn’t move to a different part of England. 

 

       And he would be alone again.  Nothing in his life but the endless boredom and dark nights of staring at the ceiling as his brain refused to stop.  It never stopped. 

 

       Except when the blade was in his hand, or the needle in his arm.  But he had promised Lestrade.  Had promised Mycroft and his mother, and Sherlock Holmes never broke a promise unless life was on the line. 

 

       Another cut, this one just below his elbow.  A single line that crossed his vein horizontally.  Five thin marks which wept slowly, the red a sharp contrast to his pale skin.  This, too, was part of the ritual. 

 

       The front door opened. 

 

        Sherlock cursed softly as he stood, slamming the bathroom door more sharply than he had intended. 

 

         “Sherlock?” John called, his voice muffled by the distance and the slim barrier now between them.  Probably in the kitchen making tea.  “Everything all right?”

 

         “Fine!” Sherlock called immediately, quickly turning on the bath with another expletive spoken sharply under his breath.  “I wasn’t expecting you back!”

 

          “Oh, wonderful, Sherlock,” he hissed to himself, placing the scalpel carefully in the sink for later concealment, checking the floor and tile for any sign of blood he may have dripped. 

 

        Luck was with him and he turned the shower on, climbing into the bath with less than his usual grace and letting the steaming water wash over him.  The peace of before had faded, his calm broken by John’s sudden appearance, but enough remained for him to accept the intrusion and start to wash thoroughly.   It wouldn’t do, after all, to let the cuts become infected. 

 

        He stayed in the shower longer than he normally would, long enough for the water to start to cool and his fingers to prune.  When he finally pulled the curtain aside,  the mirror above the sink was fogged over and John stood staring at him grimly, the scalpel in one hand and a towel in the other.

 

        “I had to brush my teeth to get the taste of bad pasta out of my mouth,” he said conversationally, his eyes dark and serious as he regarded Sherlock, dripping and naked before him. 

 

        “Get dried off and join me in the kitchen,” he ordered, handing the towel over and casting his eyes over the raised welts. 

 

         “John -” Sherlock began, too stunned to try to hide, too shocked to try to lie or prevaricate. 

 

         “I’ll give you five minutes,” John answered, opening the door and leaving, not closing it behind him.

 

         For one of those precious minutes Sherlock simply stood in the tub, dripping water into his eyes and down his nose, goose bumps rising on his arms and adding an extra sting.  For once, he could not predict how the evening would turn out.

 

         It was both thrilling and terrifying.  He wondered if this was how normal people felt.

 

         John was waiting for him at the kitchen table, a space cleared to allow room for his small first aid kit and a bottle of disinfectant. 

 

         “Sit down,” he said, still in that calm tone which gave nothing away, his expression neutral as he eyed the towel wrapped around Sherlock’s waist.  “This won’t take long and then you can get dressed.”

 

        Sherlock watched him warily as he took his seat, not even pretending to misunderstand his friend’s intention and baring his arm for his inspection.  It was an act which left him feeling more naked than when he had stood in the shower.

 

        John’s fingers were gentle as he examined the wounds, clinical as he applied the disinfectant with a cotton ball and then wrapped gauze over the arm from elbow to wrist. When Sherlock opened his mouth to protest John cut him off with a terse, “With the way you throw yourself into dirty alleys and filthy skips, it’s a miracle you haven’t lost a limb yet.  Gangrene is an ugly, ugly thing, Sherlock.”

 

        As John cleaned up his supplies, Sherlock quickly left for the sanctuary of his room, closing the door as he dressed quickly in his pajama bottoms and an old, grey shirt.  He threw his robe on for good measure, effectively hiding the stark white of the gauze, even though its secret had long since been revealed.  Sometimes the illusion was just as powerful as the real thing. 

 

        When he rejoined John in the sitting room a mug of tea was waiting for him, along with the doctor sitting comfortably in his chair, sipping form his own mug. 

 

        “Dinner didn’t go as planned,” Sherlock observed testily, annoyed at having his own plans for the evening thwarted.

 

        “Sarah and I had a terrible dinner in a lovely restaurant, where it was mutually decided that neither one of us could see the relationship going any further and we were better off just being friends,” John answered blandly, his expression betraying nothing but calm acceptance. 

 

        It was utterly maddening.

 

        Sherlock threw himself onto the couch, managing to not spill his tea, and glared at the floor.  He normally would have glared at John, but something was different about him tonight, his calm more disconcerting than his usual anger or exasperation, and Sherlock felt unnerved. 

 

         “I’m not going to ask why,” John said bluntly, meeting Sherlock’s gaze steadily when he looked up.  “I understand the psychology of it, even if I can’t get the appeal.  What I will ask,” he said, a hint of steel sliding into his voice as steadily as the knife had slid across Sherlock’s arm, “Is that you please refrain from doing so.  There are safer methods to achieve your goal, let alone more hygienic.”

 

        Sherlock swallowed back his automatic response.  It was not a lecture as he had half expected, nor was it an ultimatum.  It was a request, heartfelt and sincere. 

 

        “John-”  He stopped, taking a sip from his perfect tea, and swallowed the hot liquid to gain time as he organized his thoughts. 

 

        “I won’t leave you,” John cut him off, earning a startled glance and what little blood colored Sherlock’s cheeks to flee at his sudden ability to read Sherlock‘s mind.  “I’m your friend, Sherlock, and despite what you may think, that isn’t going to change.  Whether or not I eventually meet someone and move out or we remain here as grumpy old bachelors, I’m not going to leave you to fend for yourself.  If you need something, you only have to ask.  There are other methods we can try,” John reiterated, sitting forward slightly in his seat.  “I hear holding an ice cube until it melts simulates what you were going for tonight.”

 

        Sherlock swallowed, setting his tea down gingerly on the coffee table. 

 

        “I will - I will try,” he promised, unable to give his word when he didn’t know yet if he could keep it. 

 

        John accepted the compromise, sinking back into  his chair with a sigh and  flicking the telly on with the remote. 

 

        “Good,” he said, motioning toward the talk show.  “Now, mindless, or utterly mindless?”

 

        Sherlock stared a moment longer at his friend.  At his only friend, and felt the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. 

 

        “You pick,” he said, sitting back carefully amongst the cushions and allowing his tensed muscles to relax. 

 


End file.
